


Scars are Just Another Kind of Memory

by Ryenan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Blood Magic, Broken Bones, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Enforcer Peter Hale, Enforcer Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Married Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Murder, Scarification, Self-Harm, Supportive Sheriff Stilinski, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 17:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14360043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryenan/pseuds/Ryenan
Summary: Reciprocity, blood for power, each fresh cut worth a single spell. Cutting through the scar tissue from every other fight he has fought means he cuts deep, and some – too many – aren’t clotting.





	Scars are Just Another Kind of Memory

Peter is snarling, crouched low with a hand twisted in Stiles’ sleeve behind him where Stiles is curled up against the wall. He is covered in blood - his hands, sleeves, knees, sneakers - all saturated and dripping. His previously brown eyes are glowing, a hot white light that bleeds through the thin skin of his eyelids as he blinks.

 “Peter, please, I need you,” Stiles’ arm – the one Peter is holding, the unbroken one – twitches, his stiff, cold fingers struggling to bend.

Peter fumbles down Stiles’ sleeve, groping blindly for sticky fingers to grip while never taking his eyes off of the angry druid in front of them. Stiles gasps at the touch, his tight posture relaxing and his eyes dimming as Peter helps absorb the excess energy threatening to destroy him. 

“Little witch, little witch, already bound yourself to a wolf, hmm? Silly witch. Wolves can die. Even with all the power you’ve taken from me, I can kill a wolf!”

She pulls a knife and throws it so fast Stiles cannot see more than a blur.

Peter catches it. He stands, fingers slipping from Stiles’, and smiles the same smile he wore when killing Kate Argent.

“You really don’t understand how a magical bond works, do you? If he has your power, so do I.”

 

XX

 

Stiles wakes up as Peter is carrying him to the car, and squirms like he wants to be set down.

“Stop it. You’ve lost too much blood to walk without falling over.”

“Most of this isn’t mine. She had helpers, it’s – “

“You’re bleeding too. Stay still, please. We’re going to the hospital.”

“No!” The squirming starts up again in earnest, and Peter nearly drops him. “I can’t, they’ll put me in Eichen, my arms –“

Stiles’ arms were like ribbons, spell after spell requiring virgin spilt blood. Not virgin in the sense of Stiles, but virgin as in never used before. Reciprocity, blood for power, each fresh cut worth a single spell. Cutting through the scar tissue from every other fight he has fought means he cuts deep, and some – too many – are not clotting.

“I’ll call your father then. Someone kidnapped you, did this to you. Do you understand? Someone tried to stage your suicide.” Peter shifts to holding Stiles up with an arm around his waist, and wrenches open the back door of his car, locks be damned.

“That… might work. Tell dad the truth, though.”

 

XX

 

“Stiles, where are you? Parrish – “

“Sheriff, it’s Peter. Stiles is going to live, but you need to come to the hospital. Story is that Stiles was kidnapped and they tried to stage his suicide.”

“Let me talk to my son, Peter.”

“He’s passed out. We’ll tell you what really happened at the hospital.”

“Is the threat neutralized?”

“Completely.”

 

Peter calls Lydia next, quickly explains the situation and tells her to go stage a kidnapping the Stilinski house, and then calls Derek. Scott and Kira are, unfortunately, visiting.

“Derek, I need you to do some clean up. Take anyone, all of them, except Scott. It’s a huge mess. Don’t let Scott see.”

“Let me see what? Peter, is Stiles okay?”

Derek is growling in the background, pissed at having the phone ripped from his hands by the still childish Alpha.

“Scott, to maintain your true alpha powers, you have to stay innately good. Seeing and cleaning up dead people will not be helpful for maintaining true alpha status. Trust me on this. Now give the phone back to Derek, and get everyone to the loft to help with clean up.”

Scott must hand the phone back to Derek, because he speaks next.

“What happened?”

“Not important right now. There’s a druid, dead, and she needs to be burned, probably by Parrish, before she has a chance to wake up. Dump the other bodies, and clean up most – but not all of the blood. Story is a kidnapping and murder meant to look like suicide.”

“Fine. Is Stiles okay?”

Peter makes some reassuring noises and gives Derek the address right as they pull up to the ER doors. He carries Stiles in, but the nurses get him on a gurney and start wheeling him away before he makes it five steps in.

“Massive trauma and blood loss! Someone get me a blood typing kit and doctor Henrik!”

Another nurse stops Peter with a firm clipboard to the chest.

“Sir, you need to stay out here. What can you tell me about the patient?”

“Stiles Stilinski, blood type AB negative, I’m a match if you don’t have enough. Please, I’m his husband.”

“What caused his injuries?”

“He was kidnapped,” Peter says, putting on an air of hysterics, “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Okay. I need you to stay out here, fill out this paperwork. Someone will come get you when you can go back, okay? Stay here. You’ll only get in the way if you try and go back right now. Okay?”

“Yes. I can do that.”

“I’ll come get you if we need you. Sit down, work on those forms.”

And then she is headed back to the reception desk, and Peter collapses into the nearest free chair.

 

XX

 

The nurses cannot even tell him how many stitches he has - they had three people stitching him up, and lost count. His broken arm is so swollen that the thin cuts are weeping and they cannot put a cast on, so the doctors immobilize his arm in a strange metal cage where they can still access his shredded skin.  His left arm, his dominant side, is less cut up, but still riddled with stitches. They wrap his arm in gauze, and the slight pressure only makes the itchiness worse.

“Peter – “

“Stiles, honey, thank g-d.”

Honey is their code word, a suggestion to proceed carefully, play along. They save it for emergencies, when they have not had time to make a plan or share information. It is for play acting when someone who might not understand is in the room.

“Stiles, your father and a deputy are here. Are you feeling up to talking?”

It seems like as good a time as any, So Stiles starts to cry. Little, shaky breaths and wide eyes darting around the room, lingering on the unfamiliar deputy.

“Deputy, why don’t you step outside. Stiles doesn’t do so well with a crowd.”

The man does so, quickly, obviously uncomfortable with what he can see of Stiles’ injuries.

“Cut the crap, you’re fine. Stiles, what the hell happened?”

“Uh.”

“What actually happened,” John says.

“Oh. I came by to take care of something for Scott, and Peter came down after court to help with clean up. Only It took me longer to find what – who – I was looking for, which was good, because they knew I was coming, and I needed Peter’s help.”

“They ambushed us.”

“But it’s taken care of? Whatever Scott needed?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. We got it. Did Parrish – “

“He went with Derek Hale to do damage control. Did you – “

“I stopped by the house when I got here, yeah. Did I trigger the alarm?”

“I was going to ask if you told anyone here what happened to you.”

“I was totally out of it. Peter?”

“A nurse asked, I said he was kidnapped. Kidnapping and staged suicide, maybe?”

“Torture, not suicide. The cuts aren’t deep enough. Who did it?”

“Ugh. Difficult. Do you have to file a report? It’s a little weird for me to be in town here in the first place.”

“Is anyone going to go missing during this cleanup that will become another open missing persons case for my county?”

“No, probably not. No. They’re all under the radar types, only recently showed up.”

The sheriff scowls and shakes his head, but sets his pen and clipboard down.

“Fine. Fine. Are you going to be okay?”

 “Yeah, yeah, I’ll heal. These stitches are the worst, but I’m fine.  Somebody,” He says, eyeing Peter, “Somebody just freaked out and insisted on going to the hospital.”

“There was a lot of blood, Stiles.”

“I killed a lot of people, Peter, blood is what you get. You know that.”

 

XX

 

Stiles does not spend a lot of time outside uncovered. He is so pale naturally that the scars are not visually obvious unless he has a tan, so he is careful. Sleeves and gloves in the garden, long pants everywhere, sunscreen when the California heat is too much.

They are not visually obvious, but the scars are gently dimpled. After years of repeated use – abuse – every inch of skin is scar. Back when they were still fighting, he would end up with cuts between cuts and over cuts. The magic would get weaker every time the lines crossed, to the point he had to switch to his legs.  Peter loves the texture, revels in the physical proof of power, and his adoration is almost enough to keep Stiles from hating himself.

There are some other, larger scars, darker marks from claws and bullets, but his arms are the scariest. All the scars on his arms are his own, made by his own hands. They inch out onto his hands, curl around his fingers. They are tight when he twists and flexes, hurt in the cold, draw up in water. They are a constant reminder of his sacrifices.

Most of the sensation in his arms fades by his early thirties, by the time he is ready to retire. He cannot retire because he cannot leave Peter alone as enforcer; he cannot leave Scott to deal on his own; he cannot step away from the pack. So he gathers more scars, digs deeper for blood, shreds his legs like he once did his arms.

They try using Peter’s blood, but the spells are weak. There is no tradeoff for the magic if the sacrifice just heals.

They make eleven more hospital trips over the next seventeen years, setting bones mostly, and every time Stiles leaves with a few more cuts than he walked in with for clearing the memories of anyone who treats him.

By 40, his right wrist is so stiff with damaged skin that he can barely open a door. It is ok, he tells himself, because at least he is alive. He never expected to live this long. Longer than his mother, Erica, Scott. Longer than  Allison, Meredith, Danny. He is alive, covered in marks that show his failed attempts to save them. Every scar is a reminder he healed and they did not.

That is a cut that will never heal.

 


End file.
